


i know what i am

by cyfarwydd



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Q has feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyfarwydd/pseuds/cyfarwydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond had come to infiltrate Q's thoughts on a level that few had managed to achieve before, and it was a dangerous game to be playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know what i am

Q tends to think of his existence as separated by two distinct periods of time: Before Bond and After Bond. Not very inventive, but succinctly accurate nonetheless. Bond wasn't someone that he had been planning for; and, if nothing else, he might have assumed that becoming Quartermaster for a batch of slightly deranged individuals with excessive weapons training would have had a more significant impact on his life than a single agent ever could.

He would've been wrong and wholly unprepared for the havoc 007 would wreck on his neatly ordered routine.

Q had been recruited by M16 his first week of uni after he'd hacked into the American government mainframe in order to write an extensively researched paper for one of his only mildly tedious classes – dedication, Q likes to call it, but they had insisted on exploitive and illegal. But instead of spiriting him away as a young offender, they offered to fund the rest of his schooling, and he signed away his life and hadn't looked back since.

It starts like this -- the new M takes over the position, and Q believes he is doing an adequate job of it. Not that he had much involvement with the previous M. Although Q had been heavily involved in coding the new system before his sudden promotion, he hadn't actually had to deal all that much with higher authority. He was not what one could call a people person.

Therefore, he decided with reasonable certainty that after the events of Silva and the mess of the situation he had left them in, he and 007 would maintain the rapport they had established at the gallery. Very few people saw the need to attempt conversation with him beyond what was absolutely required after they realized that he would not warm up to them, as they put it, and nor would he roll over like a sick dog and accept their smug superiority.

Q is very young; he acknowledges this and views it as a fact separate from his ability to do his job and be the best, regardless of the fit of his trousers or the state of his hair.

Considering that those were the details Bond had first judged him on, he had dismissed the man in his mind and instead thought of how Bond might aid him in ensuring the continued survival of their Queen and country. He had not been surprised -- field agents were quite predictable.

What he could not have planned for, however, was Bond digging his teeth into the first thing Q had ever voiced to the man and holding on with the tenacity of a bulldog.

"Were you commenting on the painting, or the state of the agency? Perhaps my own status."

Q was adamant that he did not in fact startle at the sudden voice behind him -- he had merely been reaching for his tea, that was all. Bond was quiet as a stray cat looking for scraps in an alley.

"Pardon?" He was disinclined to turn around, and instead continued to take apart the motherboard spread across his desk in sad little pieces of charred data -- not quite lost, despite the attempts to destroy the information. Not to him, at least.

Q felt more than heard Bond walk closer to stop just short of his back. He sensed the presence in the prickling at the nape of his neck and the tensing of his shoulders, subtle, yet present. One does not remain relaxed with a predator standing close behind them.

"Am I marked by shame?” Bond’s voice was matter of fact.

Q stopped examining the stripped wire and sedately set down his tools. After his hands were empty, he flattened his palms, fingers arched just enough to be comfortable against the cool metal of the tabletop, and consciously released the set of his shoulders.

"I don't know. Are you, Mr. Bond?"

For a moment, there was silence, and the air of the room was dense.

"I can hit the target."

"Always?"

"Mostly."

They did not pretend that they were talking about art.

"Do you find that acceptable?"

There was another pause, longer than the first, and Q halted the panicked rush of thoughts in his mind -- while it was wise to think ahead in a game such as this, Bond was proving to be an unpredictable piece, and it would not do to guess at this moment in time.

"Do you?"

It was not quite what he expected, but then Q had only just confirmed an impression that he had gotten from their first interaction that had been noticed and stored away -- Bond still doubted himself, although he had indeed returned to his old standards at the range, and his psychological profile was slightly more promising. Fractionally.

Q clearly telegraphed his intent to turn around, rotating until he was leaning against the table, hands clasped loosely in front of him as if in benediction.

Bond's eyes were exceptionally blue and just as exceptionally empty.

"Mostly."

That was the start.

 

* * *

 

Q would never have been able to accurately surmise what would happen in the middle.

The impromptu visit of Bond's had told Q something else about the man beyond his somewhat unhinged view of his own abilities and sense of self -- Q had managed to earn the man's respect at some point in time during their short acquaintance. In this environment, that was almost tantamount to trust. ~~~~

Despite being armed with this knowledge, Q could not deny that he was bemused when Bond continued to seek out his company during 007’s sporadic lulls in duty. The man surely would have better things to do than return to work when he was given time to recuperate, ignoring the fact that all he did when he was in the building was come directly to Q Branch and ask inane and esoteric questions.

"What style of painting do you prefer? Something abstract, I suppose. Modern."

Apparently not.

Q sighed, taking a juvenile moment to spin a few circles in his quite comfortable swivel chair. "I scarcely see how this pertains to any of your interests."

He witnessed the exact moment Bond decided to play a different game. The switch was instantaneous and so circumspect that Q doubted he would have caught it, were he not so well-versed in the tactics M16 employed.

Bond's eyes took on a charming light, and the lines around his eyes became more welcoming -- caused by laughter, rather than stress. There was a slight lift to the corner of his mouth and a shift to his shoulders when he moved closer. Despite knowing what he was doing, Q felt a sudden, almost inexplicable desire to lean forward.

007 was the best, after all.

"Oh, I find you _very_ interesting."

Q kept his expression blank and chose to prolong the silence for exactly ten seconds before he responded, "Weak, 007, very weak. I daresay I've heard better in the pub on a Wednesday night."

He was watching very closely, and he saw the allure drop from Bond's face and in its place rose a hint of curiosity. He couldn't be sure that it was, in fact, genuine, as an agent's life was made on controlling perception, but he believed he could safely assume that in part, Bond did in fact find him interesting.

Which was why, when he turned back towards his desk in dismissal, he chose to give Bond a truthful answer.

"Baroque. I do, on occasion, enjoy the emotive. We all have our depths, Mr. Bond."

These questions were few and far between, given the nature of both of their duties; however, Q came to expect Bond to stop by whenever he was too injured to be handed another mission straightaway or if he was on one of the mandatory scheduled breaks the psychologists insisted all M16 agents took. Bond was always restless when he wasn't causing a mess of the political, heartbreak, or bloodshed varieties – he frequently accomplished all three at once.

They never interacted outside of the building, and Q was still unsure of what exactly Bond was getting out of their discussions. He considered that it could merely be the undervalued relief of talking to someone on his side of the government who would not back down while matching the intelligence and edge of danger that his particular job entailed.

When Q told people he worked with computers, they were dismissive. He did not mind this; in fact it was far preferable to the nattering of the woefully uninformed about their own self-taught digital knowledge about elementary shortcuts that they couldn't imagine he was aware of.  He entertained himself when these conversations occurred by visualizing how they would react if he told them he used a considerable part of his technological skills in order to ensure ease of assassination and interrogation.

Many agents fell into the same pitfall of assuming that because he was not in the field, he was weak. His appearance did not help matters, nor the fact that unlike his predecessors, he favored economical gadgetry that would get the job done efficiently, rather than excessive whimsy that would cost the branch funds that could be going towards necessary security protocols.

Q was used to being underestimated, and he could admit that it was an enjoyable experience to speak with someone who had begun with that estimation and risen above it. Field agents did not often interact with those in Q Branch, beyond the exchange of information and aid, and it was a divergent friendship. A tentative one.

He continued to observe as Bond went on mission after mission: his body sometimes stayed intact, but often it got damaged in a way that would put Q off his lunch for weeks. He watched as Bond flirted with Miss Moneypenny in the same manner he had attempted on Q months before, and saw how she responded. He was a quick study, and he could now see the blankness that remained in Bond's eyes despite his training and very likely natural skill. The human body was a difficult instrument to control completely.

Q had found that people almost never dealt in absolutes.

Their professional relationship did not deviate. Q still relayed the information 007 required in a dispassionate voice as the well accustomed sound of gunfire echoed around him. He did not fear for him, and he did not worry. He was calm.

That did not mean that when the opportunity arose, Q did not seek to help Bond as best as he was able. Regardless of the fluid legality that was the nature of the support he gave to 007, he got him home alive. 

Gradually, he saw the chill of Bond's gaze warm when it rested upon him, and he became aware of his own inclination to favor 007 in the field and otherwise. He never gave any agent subpar equipment, and he hardly neglected his other duties, but he could not ignore that somehow Bond had succeeded in disarming him enough to give him a space in his thought process unto himself.

Q did, in fact, have friends, and many acquaintances inside M16, but he had always kept his work distinctly separate from his civilian life. It was a limited life, granted, but he had his own spaces in the world that were untouched by death and the knowledge of the pure cruelty that could so casually be wrought by humanity.

He had never had trouble compartmentalizing his mind, and while he would never stop inventing on his own time, it was unconnected to anything but the thrill of discovery. Although he would shape his creations into things that could be utilized by M16 after the fact, during his off hours, his flat was empty of recrimination or violence. He saw no higher purpose in his work than simple exploration.

Nevertheless, he caught himself considering how he could use the new line of code he had written to allow 007 to disable bombs with the press of a button, and hours later he sat in repose in a bookstore down the street and considered what country Bond was currently working in (the Federal Republic of Somalia, last time he checked); the level of danger (high); and the possibility of Bond seducing a warlord's wife (likely).

It disturbed him.

Bond had come to infiltrate Q's thoughts on a level that few had managed to achieve before, and it was a dangerous game to be playing. Very few field agents lived past the age Bond was nearing, and even Quartermasters had been known to meet their untimely ends. Q had come to have a sense of who James Bond was over time, something he never thought he would care to know, and there was no looking beyond the man behind 007. They were one in the same, and trying to separate the secret agent from the man was akin to trying to remove the stripes from a tiger.

There was no denying that they were some approximations of friends at this point, in the familiarity they had with each other, and the sharpness they brazenly displayed in their conversations. Q knew many of his staff were treated with the utmost respect by Bond, and he knew that Bond considered them all disposable.

What was the most troubling was that it was somehow evolving. Q was comfortable with change -- it was the very nature of what he did, to adapt and to expand. He would have never reached the post of Quartermaster at his age if not for his ability to assess a situation accurately.

What this was, this middle ground of awareness of each other, it was a slow, inexorable march from curious indifference to casual concern and finally to something entirely new.

 

* * *

 

This is not how it ends.

007 dies on a mission. There is no resurrection because the body is examined by the world as Bond is shot in the head by a drug lord on the news -- the event caught by the camera of a popular journalist. His body is returned otherwise intact, and few people are bereaved, considering that it was entirely expected. Most never entertain the notion that Q was perhaps the most afflicted, because the death of an agent does not cause a change in his performance or his attitude. No one would notice his secreted away grief and the annoying ache in his mind that flared when he thought of the week before when Bond had stopped by on his way to his flight. He had been leaning casually against Q's desk and throwing a prototype transmitter device that cost over fifty thousand pounds to manufacture in the air, catching it safely in the palm of his hand. Toss, catch, repeat. The quiet smack of the plastic against his worn palm had been distracting.

"I don't see why you won't come out with me. We could go to another art gallery, if you'd care to." 

Q had sighed, exasperation seeping from his very pores as he had tried not to accidently send 004 through a door that was rigged with explosives. He remembers thinking that it would be terribly inefficient to have to send an agent all the way out there again.

"I suppose I'm just not that kind of girl, Mr. Bond."

"I don't suppose that you're a girl at all, Q."

"And yet here you are."

Their conversations usually contained multitudes of charged silences, used to impart feelings of amusement or derision in equal parts, the heavier weight of grief and the buoyancy of mockery. That had not been one of those times, and without a moment of hesitation Bond had said, "Yes, I do believe I am."

Then he had left for the time being; there had been a plane to catch.

Q was nothing if not competent, and he would have been fine, eventually. They were evolving, but extinction is just as natural of a process. There would always be an empty space in his mind though- a small, quiet space that showed empty blue eyes lined with grief that could be hidden as joy.

He would have survived.

Instead, the man that is shot by the drug lord has a canvas bag, bloodied and suffocating over his head, and as his body slumps the men with crude machine guns laugh. Their laughter is still ringing, sounding thin and metallic through the speakers just before they are shot down, the drug lord saved for last.

He is on his knees in supplication when a man comes into the frame; you can only see up to his torso, but he is wearing an unusually fine suit.

When Bond returns, he has super glued his lacerations together and he manages to look somewhat dignified even as he limps.

Q is at work, as always, and the distraction is a welcome one, for once.

"You know, I won't always tolerate you blundering around my equipment. The leg is a nice touch; a bit Dickens though."

Bond grins and Q notices that his teeth are very white and neat. As orderly as Q's life used to be. It makes his nose look a touch too large for his face, and it's slightly endearing.

The expression falls away, but it does so naturally, because Q’s smiles are rare and if Bond is at all the agent he's said to be, and he is, then he would be well aware that Q shows his appreciation by not kicking you out of his workspace.

Perhaps it is telling that even in the beginning, Q never sought to tell him to leave.

He leans back against a table holding a government's secrets and watches carefully as Bond does the same beside him, managing to make it look effortless despite the pain he must still be in. He's still looking over when Bond glances up and catches his stare, returning it with one of his own.

Q has a fantastic memory and an eye for detail, and he knows they are mirroring the position they were in when they first spoke. He wonders if Bond did that intentionally, considering the fact that there's a chair across from where Q was working that would doubtless ease his discomfort more than a metal table possibly could.

Considering that it’s James Bond, Q hazards a guess that he did, and he finds that it amuses him.

He waits for the other man to speak and he is not surprised by what he says.

"What do you see?"

Instead of a painting of a decaying warship, he sees eyes that are exceptionally blue, and the warmth in them is not put on -- although one can never deal in absolutes, and it is 007 after all, but Q is reasonably sure.

"Resurrection."

They are still not talking about art.

It is not an ending.

**Author's Note:**

> I am painfully American, so I apologise for anything that may be out of place! Here's my [[tumblr](http://canidais.tumblr.com/)] if anyone is so inclined.


End file.
